


Something Strange

by Luna218



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is being John, M/M, Sherlock is being a jealous idiot, There's something about that cape.., This is just for laughs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna218/pseuds/Luna218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would happen if Sherlock ever got to meet Doctor Strange?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Strange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayshipbaeship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshipbaeship/gifts).



“John,” Sherlock almost shouted when he pushed open the door to their bedroom, “get yourself ready. We‘re going out. Lestrade just texted. We have a case.”

“Mmmh-thefuckSherlock?! I’s sleep.” John mumbled, brain not fully back online after being ripped out of his slumber so violently.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John could be so slow sometimes, especially while waking up, and still he somehow seemed to believe that resting was something humans need. He grumbled, then made his way over to the bed to pull away the duvet. 

“I said get up. We have a case.”

John almost shouted in horror when the cold air hit him. Giving an exasperated sigh, he pushed himself out of bed and past Sherlock. He tried not to acknowledge how good the detective looked. His hair carefully manipulated into seemingly random, shiny curls. His cheeks slightly pink from the adrenaline rushing through his body, and then there was the collar of his coat. Done up as always. John swallowed and cursed the Belstaff under his breath. Sherlock sodding Holmes and his effing coat. What even was his life?

About five minutes and possibly three nervous breakdowns on Sherlock’s side later, they were out of the door and in a cab, driving towards the crime scene. Lestrade hadn’t been very forthcoming with information, so both men were surprised when they arrived.

The scene had seemed chaotic at first. The road was filled with parking cars, an ambulance here, a police car there. The immediate crime scene had been blocked off with tape but there were still quite a few spectators around, staring at what seemed to be the body of a single person that must have fallen out of the window of one of London’s higher and more modern office buildings.

They made their way through the crowd and entered the secured area when Sherlock suddenly stopped dead. John, focussing on the faces in the crowd to look for suspicious behaviour, almost bumped into him. The annoyed ‘Oi!’ got stuck in his throat when he saw what, or rather who, had caused Sherlock to halt.

There, kneeling by the body, was a man of about Sherlock’s built. His hair was wavy rather than a mess of wild curls and even though the colour was similar to that of his partner’s, the few grey strands at his temples made an astonishing difference. For a moment, John let his mind wander to the image of a slightly older Sherlock with hair that would just begin to show some signs of his age. He was roughly shaken out of the fantasy by a pointy elbow to his side.

“John, who is that? And why is he wearing that costume?” 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. You’re the genius. Work it out, or you know, act like a normal person and ask,” he muttered while rubbing away the stinging sensation in his ribs.

Having decided on a course of action, Sherlock started to walk into the general direction of the D.I. He wondered briefly why Graham was smiling at him all funny but then dismissed the thought as boring. He was just about to question Lestrade when the stranger stood, turned around and approached them with quick but controlled steps. Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes, he even swayed on his feet – so much that John, who had miraculously reappeared by his side, had to steady him. The stranger was wearing a cape so long and impressive in its effect that Sherlock could have screamed. The fabric was blood red and richly embroidered. It must have cost a fortune but it wasn’t the quality of the cape itself that had Sherlock gaping. It was the way it moved around the man’s body, clinging tightly to his shoulders while swaying, dancing almost, in ever-changing forms and folds behind the man’s slender legs.

By the time the man had reached them to tell Lestrade that, despite his superior abilities (Sherlock did not supress the snort that worked its way up his throat), there was nothing he could do for the man, John had taken Sherlock to the side to stare him down. 

“Sherlock, will you tell me what’s gotten into you?” he whispered, audibly upset by the detective’s behaviour.

“John!” Sherlock whined, “don’t you see? He stole it. I mean,” the detective started to ramble, “he obviously didn’t copy neither my coat nor my fondness for wearing nothing but a sheet – but JOHN! Look at the way it sways.. look at,” Sherlock stared into John’s eyes, desperately trying to make him understand just how bad the situation really was. “John, he’s wearing A CAPE.”

John smiled, then chuckled, then brought his right hand up to cup the side of Sherlock’s face. “I can see that, love. But why is it upsetting you so much?”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own to hold it in place. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the grounding touch before he sighed and spoke. 

“He looks.. He looks like me, in that thing. No, not like – no. He looks like I want to look it my coat. I, John, I can’t work like this. This is all wrong.”

John wanted to laugh but the almost sob that escaped Sherlock’s mouth just then made all his ‘Do something now or you’ll never survive the sulk that’s going to come’ alarm bells go off. 

“Ok, just – wait here. Sweetheart? I’ll be right back. Don’t disappear on me now.” He waited for the detective to nod, then made his way over to Lestrade, who was still talking to the source of all his troubles.

He cleared his throat, then spoke. “Listen, Greg, I don’t know what’s gotten into him but he can’t work today. I need to take him home.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows developed a life of their own to express the man’s confusion, which the stranger ignored as he carefully held his hand out for John to shake.

“Stephen Strange. If your partner there is who I think he is, you must be John Watson. I’m sure you’re asking yourself what brought me here. I used to be a doctor, like you, only I had to change my area of expertise. Well, like you.” 

John could only nod, trying his best not to utter the varieties of “Fucking hell, not another one!” that were going through his mind out loud. He turned back to Greg, making a final excuse for his partner and himself.

Naturally, Sherlock hadn’t waited for him, so by the time John got back to Baker Street, he found him lying on the couch, curled together in a way that should be impossible for a man his age and size. He approached with caution and touched his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder to let him know that he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Can you please stop sulking now, Sherlock? Just tell me what’s going on? That guy is unsettling by the way.. seemed to know me just from looking at me.”

At that, Sherlock groaned and spun around into a sitting position.

“He was wearing A CAPE, John!”

The doctor laughed, “So you’ve said. And?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was so.. swishy. Is my coat ever that swishy? Be honest, John! Tell me now!” The detective had become quite agitated, to the point that he was now gripping John by the shoulders, staring him directly in the face.

John could only stare back, stunned. “Seriously? That – that’s your problem? The guy’s cape was SWISHIER THAN YOUR COAT. Good God, Sherlock – yes! The Kingdom will fall!”

As John started to snicker, Sherlock threw himself back on the couch – the tails of his coat flying around him rather impressively. John heard him mumble something into the Union Jack pillow.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock huffed. “I said, EVEN THOUGH RED IS A COLOUR FOR GIRLS!”

John did his best to hold back the laugh that wanted escape his belly. He sat down on the narrow edge of the sofa and gently petted his lover’s curls. Trying his best to steady his voice, he said “You know, you’ve wasted a good opportunity to just make fun of the guy.”

Sherlock turned to look at John, interested. “How so?”

“Well, you shouldn’t have deleted fairy tales,” John quipped, then laughed as the Union Jack pillow hit him square in the face. He threw it aside and leaned down over the taller man to kiss his lips, gently. Sherlock relaxed instantly, seeking John’s touch.

Sitting back up, John smiled at the desperate noise Sherlock made. The loss of contact clearly bothered him.

“Ok, love. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’ll make up for that epic sulk and I’ll make you forget that swishy cape. In the bedroom. I’ll set everything up. You can join me in five minutes.”

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. John started unbuttoning his lover’s shirt, teasing at the naked flesh as it appeared. “You know what,” he smirked, “it would be best if you got rid of your clothes before you joined me.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly, unsteady fingers already trying to do what John had been asking for.

John got up and made his way to their bedroom. Stopping in the open door, he smiled wickedly to himself. Over his shoulder he instructed Sherlock about one final decision he’d just made.

“Darling? Be good and leave your coat on.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was just my reaction to today's footage from the Doctor Strange set and, well, a tweet by darlingben. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
